Four Klicks
by Viskey HeroMouse
Summary: Vietnam, Face narrowly escapes captivity and/or death. There's a bit of Murdock, but the focus clearly is on Face.


_Response to the ATSB2-challenge "wounded character"._ _When I wrote this, I just couldn't make my mind up whether I should write this for Face or Hannibal. I fear it shows._

* * *

He shivered. He was cold, he was afraid, he was hurt. This all looked so bad.

Heavy rain setting in, and he with his left leg broken, 25 pounds of gear to drag along and still four klicks to go. Well... limp, if not crawl.

The rest of his platoon gone: either dead, captured or lost... somewhere. None of them had bothered much about him. Presumably they all thought he was dead as well. Admitted, the blood on his shirt could have tricked less hysterical people. But it was not his blood that had soaked into his shirt, it was Peterson's... and a bit of Jubilee's brain.

He fought the urge to vomit. He couldn't. He had to hurry up. Get to the base, get to safety, get to a doc... He stifled a cry of pain, when a vine caught his makeshift splint, which disturbed the relative calm throbbing in his leg, and turned it into hot flaring stabs.

Four klicks... four klicks... Not that much... he could make it...

He stumbled, couldn't fight the scream this time. He fell, and in the desperate attempt to break the fall with his arms, he let go of his rifle. It dropped to the ground some feet ahead of him. His palms were scratched open. This did all look so bad.

A wave of nausea caught him, when he tried to get back to his feet. Get the rifle... right... get the rifle first. So he crawled over to his weapon, clutched it with a sore hand, used it to lever himself up, then limped on. Four klicks... four klicks...

He dragged on, stubbornly, soon not walking anymore, but crawling. Trying to favour his broken left leg, he pushed with the right while he pulled with his hands, the rifle slung over his shoulder and getting in his way again and again. He honestly considered leaving it behind. Not to worry about leaving clues. The trail he left behind in the soil was broad enough for anybody to see.

He kept the weapon.

Four klicks... Well, rather three klicks by now. Yes, change the mantra. Three klicks... three klicks... sounded so much better than four.

He lay still. There was only so far one could crawl with the use of two arms and one leg. Resting... resting...

Raindrops falling onto his back, washing the blood from his shirt. Most of it anyway. Drumming onto his head, increasing the headache. Three klicks.

Maybe he should try walking again? He pulled himself up, limped a few feet, then fell. His muscles just refused to co-operate. Rest some more. Three klicks... Three klicks? Three klicks.

Hey, the rain had stopped.

Voices. Friend or enemy, he couldn't tell, they were still too far away to determine.

He summoned his powers and crawled into the underbrush. A good thing he had kept his rifle. He quickly checked the load, then readied it. If it was Viet Cong, he would take as many of them with him as he could. He wouldn't die without a fight. He'd show them.

The voices came nearer. They were American.

He tried to get out of his hiding place but couldn't. Just couldn't. His muscles had given up.

The voices came nearer.

"Hey!" he called out, surprised that his voice worked. Nothing else seemed to work.

The voices stopped.

"I don't wanna complain, but it's wet!" he shouted.

Whispers.

"Could do with a doc as well!"

"Who's that?!" A voice finally called.

"LT Peck! My platoon got pretty smashed a little while ago... don't know..."

Somebody came nearer, he could hear the footsteps, the brush scratching against army issued pants, little twigs here and there snapping. "That was seven hours ago." A lieutenant suddenly stood above Face. He had friendly eyes.

"Seven hours? No, can't be," Face contradicted. He'd spent about two hours getting from the massacre to this little hide-out, surely not much longer.

"Is. Better believe it." The lieutenant crouched down beside Face, checking him over.

More people came. "How's it look?" one asked.

"Broken leg," the lieutenant reported. "Other than that he seems to be pretty ok... But I think he took a whack to the head, or something."

"Did not!" Face complained.

"I say you did," the lieutenant insisted. "Better get him to a doc, this leg doesn't look so good."

* * *

Turned out the lieutenant had been right.

In addition to his twice broken leg Face did have a concussion. Some of the blood soaking into his shirt had been his own after all. And, of course, he was covered in scratches and bruises from his long crawl home... almost home. A little less than half a klick had separated him from the base when he'd succumbed to fatique.

But, all in all, he'd got away pretty okay, considering.

They had walked into a trap, mines and grenades going off all around them, snipers shooting at them, taking them out one by one. Something had hit his leg. Not a mine or shrapnel, something big, blunt and heavy, with enough momentum to break his leg. Since he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was, Face suspected that it was rather a somebody than a something.

Jubilee had dropped onto him not long after that, saving his life by dying on him.

Those that had not been blown to pieces by the mines had been shot by the snipers. And those that had not been shot dead, had been captured and led away. He had seen them, well hidden under Jubilee's body, soaking in Peterson's blood, and seeing Jubilee's...

Face looked out of the window. Not much to see there, but enough to distract him.

"Heya!"

An awfully misplaced cheery voice greeted him.

"Hm?"

"Whatcha got?"

Face looked at the bed next to his, where a guy sat down and started to make himself comfortable. He had his shoulder bandaged and winced a bit, when he lay back.

"So, watcha got?" The guy repeated, then saw Face's leg. "Oh... shrapnel?" he asked sympathetically.

"Hm? No." Face shook his head. "Just broken... I was lucky. You?"

"Had to crash the lady," the guy replied readily. "Seems she didn't like it much, 'cause she rammed a bit of her hull into my shoulder for retaliation." He grinned. "Name's Murdock, by the way. Howlin' Mad Murdock, at your service." He flipped a salute.

Face managed a grin. "Faceman," he answered. "Pleased to meet you."

end


End file.
